7. Maddie
Maddie
The game feels different when you’re in it.
Not on the ice. Not in the way the guys feel it.
But in the way it builds around you, pulling you in piece by piece until you’re not just watching anymore.
You’re pressed up against it, separated by glass and space, but still caught in the rise and fall of something bigger than you.
It was a fight from the start. I felt that early, in the way nothing came easy and every shift carried more weight than it should. The kind of game that keeps everyone leaning forward, like something could snap if one play goes the wrong way. And through all of it, they held.
I move along the glass, camera up, tracking the play through the lens, adjusting angles as the guys cycle in and out of shifts.
The crowd swells around me, pressing closer with every save, every hit, every near miss that has people gripping the railing like they can somehow will the puck where it needs to go.
And Luka—God. He’s unreal. Every save feels bigger than the last, the kind that makes the glass vibrate under my hand from the force of the crowd reacting.
Even from this side of it, I can feel the pressure building, sitting just under everything like it’s waiting for a release.
There’s a break in play, and before I even think about it, I’m moving.
Not toward the tunnel. Not toward another angle or better lighting.
Toward them. I slip up the aisle just behind their section, keeping my camera tucked close to my side so I’m not in anyone’s way, and the second Addie sees me, her entire face lights up like I’m exactly who she was hoping to find.
“Madison,” she says, already reaching for me.
I lean in, letting her pull me into a quick hug, the kind that feels easy and familiar in a way I didn’t realize I needed until it became something I could count on.
“You’re doing amazing,” she says, pulling back just enough to look at me like I’ve done something worth praising.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Pretty sure that’s them.”
“Still counts,” she says, brushing a piece of hair back from my face before letting her hand fall.
Mia shifts closer, smiling warmly, Samantha and CeCe right there with her, Lacey tucked in just behind but still watching everything like she doesn’t want to miss a second of it.
Penelope leans forward slightly in her seat, her attention flicking between the ice, her son Matty, and all of us like she’s used to holding both at once.
And Lennon—she’s right there with them too, her smile soft and easy when she looks at me, like I’ve always been part of this instead of something they added in later.
“You good?” Addie asks quietly this time, her voice just for me.
I nod. “I’m good.”
She watches me for a second like she always does, like she’s deciding whether to ask more, then lets it go with a small smile.
“Sit for a second,” she says, nudging my arm lightly.
I hesitate. I shouldn’t. There’s a game happening.
A job I’m supposed to be doing. But I sit anyway.
Just for a minute. Layla shifts closer immediately, pressing into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and one of the twins is passed into my arms before I can even protest. I adjust automatically, settling him against me, his small weight grounding in a way that quiets everything else for just a second.
“See?” Addie murmurs. “Natural.”
I shake my head, smiling down anyway. “Don’t start.”
“Too late,” Lennon says softly, her tone warm.
“How is it down there?” Penelope asks, leaning forward slightly.
“Loud,” I say, glancing back toward the ice for a second. “Fast. They’re… locked in.”
“That’s how you know it’s going to be a good one,” Mia says.
I nod, even though I don’t fully know how to explain it.
I just feel it. And sitting here, tucked into this group, surrounded by the kind of easy warmth that doesn’t ask anything from me, it feels…
steady in a way the rest of the arena doesn’t.
Different than it used to. Since everything with Luka, something shifted.
They didn’t just let me stay around. They pulled me in.
Made space without making it a thing. And I don’t question it.
Not right now. The whistle blows, the crowd surges, and the moment breaks naturally, like it was only ever meant to be this long.
I hand the baby back carefully and push to my feet.
“I should get back,” I say.
Addie nods. “Go. We’ll be right here.”
They always are. I smile once more, then turn back toward the aisle, lifting my camera as I move, slipping back into the rhythm of the game like I never stepped out of it at all. Back to work. The game builds from there.
Faster. Harder. Tighter.
Every second stretches, every play feels like it could tip the balance until finally—it does.
The goal hits. The horn sounds. And everything explodes.
The crowd erupts so loud it feels like it shakes through the floor beneath me, the glass buzzing under my fingertips as the guys come alive on the ice.
Sticks raised. Bodies colliding. Energy spilling over in a way that feels earned.
I don’t lower the camera right away. I just stand there for a second, smiling.
The real one. The one that slips out before I can think about it. Then I catch myself and move again, following the aftermath from behind the glass, capturing what I can as they celebrate, as the moment settles into something bigger than just the final score.
And then I head for the tunnel. The energy follows us.
It always does. The win carries through everything, through the noise, through the way the guys move like they’ve got something still buzzing under their skin.
Fans lean over the railings, calling out to them, reaching for high fives, throwing congratulations into the space as we pass.
I move through it easily, camera up, catching what I can.
Until I see them. Three guys standing off to the side, pressed back just enough to let everyone pass.
They’re laughing, calling out to the players, clapping shoulders as the team moves through.
It’s normal. I don’t think anything of it.
Until one of them looks up. And sees me.
His face lights up instantly. “Maddie—” I barely have time to react before he’s stepping forward, closing the distance like it’s nothing. His arms wrap around me, pulling me in tight. “Hey,” he says, laughing. “That was insane.”
Tyler. Of course. I relax into it automatically, my hands coming up without thinking.
“I know,” I say, pulling back just enough to look at him. “That was—”
“Wild,” he finishes, grinning. “They looked good.”
“They did.”
He shifts closer, his hand settling at my waist in a way that should feel normal. Familiar. “Thanks for the tickets,” he says. “The guys loved it.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“We’re heading out after this,” he continues. “You should come with us.”
The words land easily. Like they should. I open my mouth to answer and pause. Just for a second. It’s small enough that no one would notice.
“I might need to finish some stuff first,” I say, lifting the camera slightly. “But I can meet you after.”
“Yeah?” he says, already smiling.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Text me.”
“I will.”
He squeezes my side lightly, then steps back, turning toward his friends like nothing paused at all.
And I stand there for a second longer than I should.
Just long enough to feel it. Something off.
Not wrong. Just… not quite right. Then I lift the camera again and keep moving.
Because that’s easier. Because that makes sense.
Even if something in my chest doesn’t settle the way it should. I don’t question it. I just keep going.
The tunnel empties slower after a win, the kind of slow that stretches time just enough to make it feel like the night isn’t quite ready to end.
The energy doesn’t drop all at once. It lingers, clinging to the walls, to the voices that echo a little louder than usual, to the way the guys move like they’re still carrying something from the ice with them.
Laughter comes easier. Shoulders are looser.
Conversations overlap in a way that feels lighter than it did an hour ago, like whatever weight they were holding onto out there finally gave.
I move through it at first, the way I always do—camera up, catching what I can while it’s still real.
The smiles that aren’t for anyone but each other.
The exhaustion that hasn’t settled yet. The quiet moments that matter just as much as the ones the crowd sees.
This part is instinct now. Muscle memory.
I don’t have to think about where to stand or what to capture because I already know.
And then the work ends. Not all at once. Not in a way that anyone else would notice. It just… fades, leaving me standing there with the camera still in my hand and nowhere left to point it.
That’s when it starts. I don’t mark it. I don’t think, okay, now I stay. It doesn’t come with a decision or a reason I can name out loud. It settles into me the same way it always does—quiet, steady, impossible to ignore once it’s there. The awareness that I’m not leaving yet. That I can’t.
So I drift back toward the far end of the tunnel, toward the stretch of hallway that leads from the locker room to the exit, the place where I can see everything without being in the way of it. It’s always this spot. Close enough to watch. Far enough that no one asks questions.
My camera hangs loosely in my hand now, forgotten, but I keep it there anyway. Something to hold onto. Something that makes it look like I have a reason to still be standing here.
Guys start to filter out in small groups, one or two at a time, voices still carrying pieces of the game with them. A few of them nod when they pass me, tossing out easy goodbyes that I return without thinking, the interaction automatic, natural.
“Good stuff tonight, Mads.”
“See you next game.”